Dawson Filter as He Relates to Yaks

Dawson Filter tightened his belt to the fourth notch, and thought several words, many with the letter “w”. After 0.21 seconds o’ deliberation, he decided to raise his left arm, to spite his critics and everyone along the way who ever doubted that he could, doing so just in time to wave the arm’s accompanying hand at the Sylvester Denny who had seemed to arrive in the room.

“Hello Sylvester,” Babe Listowel said, in order to compete with Dawson’s welcoming gesture, “and how are you on this here fine day?”

“Oh, well I do declare: I am well as well can be. Have you come to free yourself from the burdens of the stuff in this world that doesn’t involve questing for the true meaning of feelings?”

Sylvester nodded his head on purpose, and used its mouth to say “Yes, yes, mainly the burdens caused by running about with a man who reminds me that I am his property every four to seventy minutes. It’s like when my great-uncle Barack was trying to make me inherit his blood-money; but I feel like with this one he knows I don’t like it. It’s almost gotten to the point were I dislike it, man.”

Babe Listowel knew from his time as rocker that when someone, say, Norman, has gotten some problems, it is best to pat him on his most convenient shoulder, and talk him through the DOORKNOB cycle:

Denial

Other negativity

deceptiOn

willful and deliberate misKoNduct

comFort

Better stuff than the other parts

In doing so, Norman feels okay to be Norman, and Norman`s problems feel dead. Babe began to sing:

“Denial, hmmmm, denial (X4)

(refrain): Don’t you wish some other things/but it’s all DOORKNOBS everywhere

Other negativity, hmmmm, other negat-” but was fortunately cut short when a gaggle of blind human beings riding golf carts painted to look like yaks came riding o’r the plains to downgrade the Spandex Room’s Easternmost wall to a pile of rubble.

“Raise your hands until they’re up.” Ordered the first. He paused for a few seconds, guessed that the company had put up its hands, and snarled, as he had so many times before: “Sorry, I didn’t see you there.”

The golf cart-men weaved through Dawson, Sylvester and Babe, chanting that the Illuminati for The Blind is generally better than the general public. They were absolutely correct, assuming that the Javan Rhino Mafia is included in the general public, which Norman and I have both decided they ought to be, so it’s two to one, “James”. Dawson Filter leaned his trembling body in Sylvester’s general direction. “Do you recognize anyone in this people collection?” He asked, fully expecting an answer.

“Do I ever!” Sylvester replied, patting down his ever chapping lips with his tongue. “There’s Wayne Rubblefish by the post, and Twelve-Anne behind the eye patch. I don’t think that Wayne’s all that blind, by the by. The ridiculously tall one’s Pontius Smith, and the one wearing too much green for his own good’s name is Luther. If you see anyone here, there’s about a one-in-eight chance that his name’s Luther, unless you already know it’s something else, then it’s probably not. Take Stanford Wynter; I know his name’s Stanford, right? Watch this: Hey, Stanford!” Sylvester called, flailing his arms, “Your name doesn’t happen to be Luther, does it?” Arnold shook his head. “See. I’ve gotten this system pretty well worked out.”

Listen carefully, Kipfer, you mouldering pile of melon rinds- you tell those one-horned goons that if they show up in this blog again, they will no longer be “critically endangered”, their extra thick-skinned arses will be extinct. Ain’t nobody gonna walk into my blog and intimidate me, capiche?